Page 71 of Let Me In

I watch her in the corner of my eye.

Shoulders pulled in again. Hands tucked into her sleeves. And I know. I know she’s bracing against what's waiting for her, folding inward like she’s tucking parts of herself out of reach.

I want to tell her to come back with me.

That she doesn’t have to go back at all.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Not until we pass the ridge. Not until I’m sure no one’s following. Not until I’ve scanned the tree line enough times to know we’re alone.

Then I speak.

Quiet. Even.

“Baby.”

She doesn’t look at me, but I hear her breath catch. I know she’s listening.

My hands tighten just slightly on the wheel, voice low and deliberate.

“There are going to be rules now.”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t interrupt.

I keep my eyes on the road.

“If you leave the house. If you take the dogs for a walk or a drive. If anything feels even a little bit off—you tell me.”

I pause.

Not for effect.

Just to make sure she’s breathing.

“I don’t care what time it is. Doesn’t matter if it’s nothing. Doesn’t matter if you think you’re overreacting.”

I glance over.

She’s watching me now.

Eyes wide. Hurt tucked beneath the surface. But there’s something else, too.

Something like hope.

“I’ll be there,” I say simply.

Then softer, because she needs to hear it like this:

“You’re never a bother, Emmy. Ever."

Her breath stutters—just slightly. Like the words caught her off guard. Like some piece of her had been bracing for the opposite, and now doesn't quite know how to hold the truth of it.

"You’re mine to protect. That’s not a burden. That’s the whole damn point.”

And I see it.

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